


Footballs

by orphan_account



Series: Childhood Memories [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Growing Up, M/M, Young, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Harry is 6, he goes to see Louis play his first under-10’s football match.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footballs

When Harry is 6, he goes to see Louis play his first under-10’s football match. It’s one of those days where it’s freezing but the sun is still shining, as though mocking you for living in a country where it’s cold in October, but the players don’t seem to mind as they run about the pitch in an amazingly organised manner for what is really a bunch of schoolchildren. As the younger boy watches them from the side of the field with his parents and the Tomlinsons, he finds himself being drawn into the match despite never having really been interested in the sport before. He doesn’t really understand the rules of the game that well, but he knows enough to cheer whenever Louis has the ball at his feet and whoop manically when he kicks it into the goal, which happens twice in the first half an hour. Each time he scores, the older boy’s face lights up and he flashes a brilliant smile towards his team-mates and the crowd. He’s the sort of person who always looks happy, whether he’s at school, in the playground, or with his family, but on the pitch he seems to be almost more alive than ever before as the wind whips through his shock of chestnut brown hair and his blue eyes glint in the sun and his pristine white kit get gradually covered in mud, grass and sweat. Harry’s not sure if you can call boys beautiful, but that’s certainly how he would describe his friend now. At half time the team are supposed to stay at one end of the field with their coach, but naturally they all manage to find their way back to their parents in the crowd. The older boy’s face is flushed from exertion yet he’s grinning as always as he relays to them what they’ve just seen, much to the annoyance of Gemma who sighs and tells him that _‘we know! We were right here!’_ Anne quickly shushes her, however the young footballer doesn’t seem to mind, or at any rate he doesn’t have time to because the second half is about to begin. It goes by in a similar blur of running and shouting and cheering that the curly haired child finds it slightly hard to keep up with and still manages to enjoy. This time, though, when his best friend scores the final winning goal of the match he looks over to the crowd and hones in directly on where he knows Harry is standing. Their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds, which is still long enough for his heart to flutter in his chest like a caged butterfly. He’s not sure why his body is reacting like this but it doesn’t feel bad – instead he’s a little light headed yet amazingly happy for no apparent reason. Then the final whistle is blown and Louis runs to congratulate the opposing team because they’ve won by a mile thanks to him and the younger boy is clapping until his hands are numb from cold and his face hurts from smiling. It’s only later, when they’re walking home together, that he has the chance to congratulate his friend on his victory.

“You were really good,” at the compliment the 8 year old’s smile widens almost imperceptibly, but the other lad notices how his eyes light up and his lips stretch wider. “Well, I think you were.” All he means is that he doesn’t understand football enough to make a valid judgement, but his friend laughs at his statement in a way that confuses him. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, just…” there’s a moment of silence as the older boy simply looks at him strangely, like he’s weighing up something in his mind, although it’s not judgemental, more sort of adoring.

“What?” Silence again, and then:

“Nothing.”

“Lou-eeeh!” Frustrated but unsure how to vent his emotions, the younger lad sticks his tongue out as his mate, who simply smiles broadly. Then Louis pushes him playfully and Harry pokes him in the stomach and Louis tickles him until he surrenders and they walk home hand in hand because that’s what they do.

Louis never does tell Harry what it was he going to say, and he doesn’t ask because his friend is staying the night and there’s ice cream and everything is too perfect to ruin with questions.


End file.
